My skin feels heavy today. Pain hovering above my face, touching me with its jittery fingers. Tiny pebbles breaking my surface, ripples searching my skin for the painful spots. They always find what they’re looking for.

I want to climb out of my sad skin. Rip my flesh open, and climb out the bleeding wound I made myself become. A newborn soul, light as a cloud, I’d flow with the wind, upward into the blue skies, away from the dirt bringing me down, the heavy hands of dirty creatures pulling me. They want to stomp me into the mud, and become one of them. I’m not their kind. I’m not better, nor worse. I’m different. My different burns their eyes, they wail their innards out, blood-foaming from their toothless mouths, rolling in their own droppings. No one is allowed to be different. No one is allowed to think differently. No one is allowed to be free. My freedom is their pain.

The air weights heavy on my chest today, lungs broken by invisible particles dancing into the void. Don’t think about your breathing, said my professor, when breathing becomes a conscious decision, you’ll die in your sleep. Is overthinking a conscious decision?

I feel like unfolding, turning myself inside out, when I should be doing the opposite. Shutting up, shutting down my compulsive need to discover, to evolve, to grow upward. Learning to quit my suicidal oversharing habit. My stream of thoughts is an endless question. Therefore, I’m an easy target for endless contempt. Nobody likes uncomfortable questions. We’re all kind, when we wrap ourselves in our cosy bubbles. I am a needle, a prickly plant, I’ll test your bubble.

Their reply to my endless question is the dirt they throw at me. I may hide behind my thorns but the sadness crawls up my skin like a legion of red ants. Restless, I toss and turn at night, until the flood of tears washes my face.

I turn away from the dirt. I pray. I see flowers blessing me in the evening sun. I see my love sleeping peacefully. My children laugh touched by the golden glow of God’s blessings. I turn away from the hands of dirt pulling me down to their level. They are not worthy of my sadness. Blessed are those who are sad. They will be comforted.(Matthew 5:4)

Thank you for reading!